go buy a lime. The
young girl at the cash regis-
ter gave it to us.               

*an erasure of “Quinceañera,” by Jess Roat, Lexington Poetry Month (06/22/25)                                                                

There are three of you,
two scratching at their desks
one standing far down the hall.

That is all,
no interaction
no recognition

And the file cabinets are closed

A time when rotary dials
reined (and rang), no texts

with gifs could tantalize you
to turn your attention away
from the job of the day.

There aren’t even snapshots
in frames on your desks –  

strictly business, strictly BS.

So, it seems
so old,
so cold,

so closed in the Kodak margins,
you are alone.

Tide rolls in and brings
The bite of the cold sea and
Sand to itch my toes.

Tide rolls out and takes
Balance from tumbling creatures
But not itchy sand.

knocking at the front door

waiting to be let in 

she’s got a bundle of 

wildflowers from her 

backyard– she is 

beautiful 

like nothing you have

ever seen 

maybe because you 

met her later in life

she didn’t start showing 

up consistently 

until recently 

i wished on a star 

for her to visit 

just one more time

but here she is,

asking to move in 

to the upstairs bedroom

The train pulses with accented voices, desperate for firefly light.

i quit weed the other day
at least for a couple of minutes
i mean a couple hours
i just happened to be
asleep when i did it
thought i was takin back power
of my life
but now i need more flower
gotta get high
need an inner uprisin
can’t stop puffin on these hybrids
and sativas
aint tryna spend my life up
in the bleachers
never hype up
the teachers
cuz the teachers don’t get em hype
we gon give our life to the reaper
so ya gotta live your life
so come over here
mamacita
with dem thick thighs

i aint got no hoes
i got a woman that i love
i aint got no dough
i just be livin off a dub
even though a few years ago
it was worth twice as much
shit bro
why i always gotta light it up
is this all i live for
maybe that’s why my life is stuck
i gotta give to get more
fore my time is up

was gonna go outside
but then i got high
got sidetracked
i was gonna get out my mind
but then i got fried
now in my mind im trapped
was tryna live my best life
gettin high all the time
now i can’t get that time back
stead of tryna deal
with how i feel inside
i get high
so i never really have to try that

Let’s talk Bread
Let’s talk Familia
family style Focaccia
Grandma’s hands, almost as big as Daddy’s
Strong Sicilian garden drenched hands
Cooking hands, Sewing hands, Soft hands,
Hands that took the upper hand to pomodors, bell peppers, and stripping skins off homegrown elephant garlics
Prize Blue Ribbon garlics
A Nonna’s blindfolded art
the way she effortlessly mastered swirling delicious fresh flavors together
her raviolis, handmade pillows stuffed with veal, beef, fresh grated
Parmesan all floating happily in a secret family sauce
But the focaccia was the real deal family ritual
from the dough picked up at Giovanni’s Bakery
made just the way Papa Giovanni’s family made it in my grandfather’s village in Sicily
atop the focaccia Grandma scattered thinly sliced mozzarella, piled high with savory vegetables, herbs and cheese, sprinkled with her garden fresh
Oregano, Rosemarino, Marjoram, and placed one-by-one Olive Oil drenched garden grown bell peppers next to whole ear
elephant garlic ~ Italian candy
harvested right from the yard
placed on a wooden peel and gently shoved into the handmade backyard oven
as we all sat under the grape vined trellis singing Italian songs
the focaccia toasted to a bubbling golden brown 
each of us generously graced with a sizzling slice 

our Sunday Familia picnics
full of laughter, good eats, loud Sicilian songs
and sometimes fights

Grandma would always say,
“Let ’em a holler, afta they holler, let’a shut up!”

When the tide becomes
listless and time becomes
wistless and I’m iterations
of you remind me
that nothing dies
and lead me by hand
towards the garden

Where the perfumed roses shiver
and I’m pulling soil over myself
under the black night
repeating in the softest words
I’ve never met a bad person
I’ve never met a bad person 

The word “conservatory” exists
as one of those liminal words
that captures a space, a place, and an experience,
each of these definitions
also enveloping an element of time.
We don’t hear of friends
spending their time 
in any version of this word,
yet we act surprised when we hear
of a culture such as ours 
drained of all leisure, music, thinking, flowers, and phrasings.
While a few panes of glass and a few settees
won’t fix the pains that have taken root in our souls,
slowing down and remaining
might stall the sunbeams in artificially humid air
long enough for us to notice
when we want something
more for our world.
That feature is the most powerful one
locked in the many layers of a conservatory,
even if we must search a little harder
to find even a symbolic one.

What if this isn’t our first time alive?
Maybe the end of a long evolution.
We may have been born a fish, bird, or mammal
moving up with each death.

We’re reborn more complex
until re-entering as human
with a brain, voice, and choice.

Will it be the last stop or
will we use our voices and skills
to protect all creatures evolving
from  where we began?

How we help those below us
may decide where we go next –
maybe keep on evolving
or reaching the enc.